


This Small Town

by qanterqueen



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Blood and Violence, Drug Dealing, Its a twin peaks au it gets really buckwild, M/M, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn, Small town but things are very weird, Theres a drug theme here but i wont be describing a drug trip ever i dont think, Twin Peaks AU, Underage Drug Use, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23621545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: In the town of Faerun, people died of old age or they didn’t die at all. The same residents had been there for years and would be there for years more. People did not come and they did not leave— these people were satisfied with what they knew, and they knew that people died of old age or they didn’t die at all.
Relationships: Barry Bluejeans/Lup, Kravitz/Taako (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. The Stone Animals

**Author's Note:**

> AWWWWWWW MAN AW SHIT here we are, AGAIN, starting another long fic. This is quite unlike anything i’ve Ever written, so updates may take even longer than usual, but they are for sure comin. This is a Twin Peaks au— however, in writing this, i realized two things:  
> 1\. To write a Twin Peaks au, you must first understand the plot of Twin Peaks.  
> 2\. I, despite having watched Twin Peaks multiple times, have no goddamn idea what the plot of Twin Peaks is.  
> This being said, i will try my absolute hardest to pack in as many hidden meanings and lines that you should probably read twice. My favorite thing about Twin Peaks is how deeply you can read into anything, which is precisely what I’m going to encapsulate for this fic. The overall plot may differ slightly from the show, but I hope I can capture what really matters— the pure “what the fuck”ness of this show.

_ In a patch of grass plotted and carefully maintained by the Faerun Police Department sits a statue of a raven sitting atop the horns of a ram. The statue, commissioned by the town’s municipal department, had just recently been built in the past year; the construction of it started eight months ago and it was unveiled one month later in a ceremony attended by almost every town resident. Made out of the finest gray stone found deep in the surrounding mountains, it was easy to see how much care was packed in every curve and crevice. To a visitor from out of town reading the inscribed plague on its base, the quick time frame in which it was crafted may have suggested lack of quality— yet reality called for a far different case. The artist, so riddled with grief and love at the time, felt a certain hybrid of inspiration and dedication to the task.  _

_ One year ago, four months before the statue was commissioned, marked the grisliest day the town of Faerun had ever seen. _

_ To such a small town as Faerun, death was felt in every corner. Funerals were attended to by those not invited and the pastor (there was only one in the whole town) would spend all morning searching high and low in his cluttered home to find the proper speech for the occasion. Over fifty years ago, when he had led his very first funeral, he had written a speech for the departed, callously leaving write-in blanks to insert the appropriate words about the deceased. Since then he’d only had to perform a funeral service once or twice and so it never seemed fitting to him to write a whole new speech. After all, the funerals were often so far spread apart, the deceased dying only of old age, that no one could possibly remember that the speech was retold over and over. _

_ A little less than a year ago, the pastor, bent over a crowded desk with enough room cleared away for a blank sheet of paper, wrote two distinct speeches. _

_ Those at the funeral held a bit less than a year ago remembered scattered phrases of the speeches that stuck with them. The two bodies were lowered in succession and there was no contention when the pastor decided to read one speech before the other. The speeches were new, each written for the individual, but both of them were relatively the same. There was lamenting of lives taken too soon and brief descriptions of what these lives, individually, could have been. Lines that were memorable for different reasons stuck with different people— but collective memories accumulated the same distinct fact; people were weeping. _

_ There was not the cry that was silent and for those peacefully passed in their slumber. There was not the dry eye of a heart saddened yet previously prepared. There was weeping behind closed fists and covered faces. There was weeping that interrupted the pastor’s speeches like punctuation, so sudden yet not unexpected. The pastor himself paused every so often, aware of the strength he needed to display for this community but not being able to deny that he was human as well. _

_ In the town of Faerun, people died of old age or they didn’t die at all. The same residents had been there for years and would be there for years more. People did not come and they did not leave— these people were satisfied with what they knew, and they knew that people died of old age or they didn’t die at all. _

_ The tragedy and grief was bottled up from the town’s bleeding heart and molded to a statue in front of the police station. The plaque that sat at its base read only the names of the deceased and the date that the statue was completed. To an outsider, this statue was a dedication— but the reason for such dedication was indiscernible.  _

_ The raven, perched so delicately atop the ram’s head, gazed into town. The ram, in opposition, bore its lifeless gray eyes directly through the doors of the Faerun Police Department. _

  
  
  


“It’s 11:30 a.m., February twenty-fourth. Entering the town of Faerun. Just three hours from where I started and it already feels like a different world. I’ve never seen mountains so tall in my life. It’s fifty-four degrees on a slightly overcast day. Weatherman said rain. I’m not so sure about that. Mileage is 79,345, gauge is on reserve— I’m riding on fumes here. I had to stop a few miles back to buy some breakfast at a place called… well, I’ll tell you later. If you ever make it out here, I’ll find the name of it. You’d like it.”

A sign flashed by the car, looking as it was made some hundred years ago and never touched since. 

_ WELCOME TO FAERUN,  _ it read.  _ POPULATION: 40,000. _ Two of the zeroes were nearly falling off.

The young man turned off his recorder, resting it on the dashboard next to a crudely taped map. Absently he watched the sights pass around him— he’d truly never seen mountains so big, though in reality he doubted that was an important enough point to make. It was obvious, to him, that he’d never seen such mountains; the stare that he meandered over the scenery undoubtedly rivaled that of a child looking at— well— anything new.

Unbeknownst to him, however, his awestruck gaze was not the only thing that gave away his otherworldliness. His black car, freshly loaned from work; his trench coat, tailored and sharply black; his suit underneath, ironed to a ridiculous extent; his briefcase, so shined it reflected the trees passing by— he was polished and proper, as he was wont to be and soon to realize the town of Faerun wasn’t.

It wasn’t difficult to find the police station; he was told that there would be a “gaudy and weird animal statue” out front, and while he didn’t think it was really all  _ that  _ gaudy, it  _ was _ the only animal statue that was almost as big as the building it was placed in front of. He was told that Faerun was a quiet and rather dull town, something directly out of a midwestern roadstop despite resting more on the east coast. It felt like the animal statue was going to be the only artwork he’d find proudly displayed, for anything other than a gray pile of rock would be too abrasive and colorful.

The last city he had been through, nearly an hour and a half away from here, felt more and more distant the more he drove through Faerun. This town was the type, he felt, where it hadn’t changed for a hundred years and wouldn’t in another two hundred. There was no “big city” appeal to Faerun, from what he’d heard; no famous colleges or people to admire and learn from. Faerun was a town that offered no attractions and, in the same vein, no reason to leave.

He pulled his car to the side parking lot of the police building. Only three cars stood scattered around him and even they were colored in dull, faded paint jobs. There was some ambient noise to greet him as he stepped out with his briefcase. A few birds that sung songs that he’d never heard and the wind gently shaking the abundant trees. It was by no means silent, but it was  _ quiet,  _ which was not generally a thing he was used to.

It was hard to believe that this quiet town needed to call in an FBI Agent for anything.

Inside the station felt more like a community center than a place of official business. There was a large seating area and what looked to be a hall that could have led to some conference rooms. A medium sized box T.V played quietly in the seating area, conveniently in the eye line of a secretary’s office situated right next to the front door.

The T.V. was immediately muted as Kravitz walked in the door.

“Hello, sir! How can I help you?”

The secretary caught Kravitz by surprise. He was expecting some sort of secretary, of course, but not one that looked like a teenager.

Actually, upon further inspection,  _ teenager  _ was a stretch. 

The boy sitting behind the glass had curled hair cut close to his scalp and thick round glasses that sat far up on the bridge of his nose. His clothing looked like he had just come straight from a prestigious school— shorts and a vest and a crimson bow tie— and like this was some community-hour job he had taken to look good on a college application. Kravitz snuck a quick glance around him— there were papers neatly stacked in different piles all on the desk he was seated at. Perhaps he was only “watching the front” for the real secretary. 

Though it seemed more likely that he was the secretary’s son than the actual secretary, the kid had a golden name tag clipped to his vest. 

“Hello… Angus,” Kravitz said with an uneasy smile. How much did Angus know? “I’m Agent Kravitz, here with the FBI.” He thought about showing his badge but decided against it. He would, if anyone asked, provide that and documentation, but he had a feeling that no one in Faerun would suspect him of lying. What was there to gain from lying in a town like Faerun?

“Oh, right on time!” Angus said, without checking the time. His large eyes and wide smile stayed trained on Kravitz. “You’re here about the homicide, right? That’s so cool! Are you an agent or a detective? Is there a difference? Is this your first homicide case? I checked— this is the first homicide case in Faerun  _ ever _ . Isn’t it cool that  _ you’re  _ the one doing the  _ first ever  _ case? It’s almost like fate!”

“Like fate,” Kravitz repeated, a little lost and taken aback. “I’m… sorry to ask, and I mean no offense, but you’re the secretary here?”

By way of answer, Angus reached over and held down a button on a pale yellow phone. “Sherif, the FBI man is here! I’ll describe him for you so you know who he is. He’s— well, he’s in a black coat—“

“Angus, my office is  _ right there _ ,” an approaching voice said. “I have the door open. Jeez.”

The source of the voice was a man so bright that Kravitz felt himself further taken by surprise. He was thin and a tad shorter than Kravitz, but made up in both areas with his look; a bright red sweater and washed out corduroy pants, paired with the longest blonde braid of hair Kravitz had ever seen in his life.

Where Kravitz was from, such an outfit and hairstyle was nothing to look twice at. But in the town of Faerun, he felt his throat dry and his hands grow cold. Here, it seemed, was the color of Faerun.

“Sheriff Taako,” he introduced himself, not bothering to hold out his hand but instead settling for looking Kravitz up and down slowly, a gap-toothed grin spreading across his freckled face, as if  _ Kravitz  _ was the oddity in the room. “Just call me Taako. ‘Sheriff’ sounds like I’m, like, some kind of straight man.”

Kravitz couldn’t help his eyebrows raise dramatically. Taako’s grin widened. “That gonna be a problem?”

“U-um, no,” Kravitz was quick to supply. It  _ absolutely  _ wasn’t going to be a problem. Or— or maybe it was, in the way that some problems don’t seem like problems  _ in the moment  _ but grow to be disastrous in horrifyingly short amounts of time. “I guess you don’t seem like the other kind of sheriffs I’ve met before.”

“Course not. You got a name? Or should I just call you ‘Agent’?”

“Kravitz. I mean— Agent Kravitz. Agent Kravitz is just fine.”

“Alright, I’ll stick with Agent.” Taako glanced at the clock on the wall behind Angus’ head. “Morgue opens in an hour, Agent. What say we fill out some paperwork and kill some time?”

Filling out the necessary paperwork took ten minutes.  _ Killing some time _ took an hour.

_ Killing some time  _ translated to, as Kravitz learned,  _ let’s take a quick tour of the town. Let’s take a quick tour of the town  _ translated to  _ Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s eat. _

All this was to say that at 12:20 p.m., Kravitz found himself walking into the  _ Triple M  _ diner with Taako.

The place was not unlike the breakfast establishment he'd stopped at earlier, which was hardly surprising. Red booths, muted tan walls, a few potted plants-- it was altogether entirely unremarkable. Perhaps what made Faerun special was the people and their (so far) bright personalities. Or (and perhaps this was rude to say), perhaps Faerun just wasn't special at all. Maybe it was just another town with a few oddballs but an otherwise lackluster appeal and equally lackluster diners.

They took a seat in a booth next to the window, a few raindrops starting to tap gently on the glass. Taako immediately leaned back and slouched. Kravitz had the impression that if he had room, Taako would throw his feet up on the table. 

"This is the best diner in the world," Taako announced. "All local stuff. Local eggs, local people."

A server quickly approached the table, hurrying from where she'd been lazily leaned against the counter writing something on a piece of paper. Taako and Kravitz were the only two people in there, but nonetheless she smiled a bit too wide and seemed almost frazzled. She was starkly younger than Kravitz, but not quite as young as Angus (however young that was). Her hair, nearly touching her lower back, was stark white.

"Sheriff!"

"I told you, Isty.  _ Taako _ ."

"In for your usual?"

"Yeah, extra strong. Y'know-- y'know what, just bring the whole pot over."

She nodded and curtly turned on her heel, took a few steps, then loudly proclaimed, " _ Oh wait! _ " before turning back around just as sharp. Kravitz watched, amused, as she finally addressed him. "Oh, I am so sorry, I totally didn't see you there!"

Unlikely, as he looked like a walking shadow dressed in all black, but it was endearing nonetheless. "No worries. Tea for me, thank you."

She made no attempt to move. "Oh, you must be the FBI Agent everyone's whisperin' about."

Her face, on the turn of a dime, fell.

"I-- well, welcome to Faerun. I'll get you your co-- I'm sorry, your tea."

Kravitz and Taako watched her hurry away, still as frazzled but decidedly less excited.

"That's Istus. Local teen," Taako whispered under his breath, shifting his gaze to the street outside. "She was friends with the dead girl. She, uh-- the dead girl-- used to work here with her. Istus is… well, she'll probably give you burnt tea. She's messed up my order four times in the past week, and I only ever get coffee."

Istus had vanished through a door behind the counter, likely to the kitchen. The poor girl. It was part of his job to suspend his personal emotions to victims, but the sympathy Kravitz felt towards Istus couldn't be helped. Suddenly the empty diner made sense in a way it hadn't before.

"Did you know her?" Kravitz asked as gently as he could. There was no music in the diner, just the soft patter of rain to fill the silence. "The deceased, I mean."

"No," he responded, shrugging. "Sometimes these things just happen, y'know?"

Istus came back a few minutes later with a cup of tea that was remarkably bitter. Kravitz smiled, thanked her, and at the end of lunch he tipped her ten dollars. Taako, over the span of two pieces of toast and scrambled eggs, drank the entire pot of coffee. 


	2. The Second Longest Braid

“Behave” was the word that they left her with, along with a thick paperback book about accounting and a pen to take notes with.

_ Behave _ , as if she were a child unable to do just that.

_ Behave. _

She reached over slowly, though she was alone in the office, and grabbed the phone. Leafing through some disheveled papers on the desk before her, she found the document and phone number she was searching for. 

“Hi! I’m looking to talk to Mrs. June about the management collaboration seminars between the Hotel 11 and the Star Inn?” She crossed her legs, leaning back to examine her nails and the fresh manicure she’d gotten that morning. “I want to run some numbers through with her before we really officialize anything.”

The girl smiled after a moment. “Yes. Mhm. Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll hold.”

Her eyes wandered to her unfinished homework resting on the desk. How stupid do they think she is?

“Hi Mrs. June, how are you? That’s wonderful to hear— I’m fine myself, thank you! Yes, that’s right, I’m calling because—“

The door to the office suddenly clicked open and she slammed the phone down, turning sharply in her chair.

“What, pray tell, were you just doing?”

Lucretia kicked her feet up on the desk, purposefully dirtying the papers that she needed. “Nothin’ I didn’t see fit to do.”

Her Uncle Leon fixed her with a tired, disappointed glare. His eyes briefly moved to the desk.

“Get your feet off my desk.”

“No.”

“I told you to  _ behave _ ,” he crossed into the room. “Don’t you have homework?”

“The way  _ I _ see things,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “Everything’s in my name. So really it’s  _ my  _ desk, and  _ I  _ can do as I see fit.”

“I’m not having this conversation again.”

Lucretia narrowed her eyes. “Why? Don’t want to lose again?”

“There’s nothing to  _ lose! _ ” He snapped. Then, with a quick glance out the door, he lowered his voice and said, “Get your feet off  _ my desk _ and  _ do your homework _ .”

“I don’t think so.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her uncle. In fact, she rather liked him a lot— the problem wasn’t him. The problem was the  _ hotel. _

_ Her _ hotel.

“Actually, maybe I will.” Uncle Leon stared at her with concern, but she had already stood, headed to the door he had just come from. “ _ Maybe  _ I’ll go take a walk around. Have a little breather from my horrid homework.”

“Lucretia…”

“Maybe I’ll just go say  _ hi _ to everyone.”

“ _ Lucretia! _ ”

She had slipped through the door before he could catch her.

The conference room was packed, as it had been since this morning and would likely be until night. Empty coffee cups sat beneath wooden foldable chairs occupied by men of all different shapes and sizes. The one thing that didn’t vary were their suits; all the same shade of boring gray to match with their boring red ties and their boring brown shoes.

Only about half of these men spoke English, she knew. They were from Portugal and were staying on a week long “retreat” in Faerun, wherein Uncle Leon would hope to strike a deal concerning partnerships overseas and the international tax claims for the Star Inn. So far they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, as their translator fervently reinforced to Uncle Leon daily. They were a rambunctious bunch, seemingly not holding a single care that Faerun was a rather small and boring town. They were too busy partying and making noise in the Star Inn’s lobby at midnight to hear the gentle cicadas or the quiet breeze through the trees. All in all, they cared for Faerun about as much as Lucretia cared for them.

Faerun was an awful, boring, dreadfully quiet town. But it was  _ her  _ awful, boring, dreadfully quiet town.

And it was  _ her hotel  _ that resided in this town.  _ Her hotel _ that had no logical reason to partner with a company overseas when it could barely hold its own legs where it was.

Uncle Leon made sure that she knew that she was not allowed to make deals or manage the hotel in any way, at least until she was twenty. He didn’t say anything about  _ breaking  _ deals.

So into the conference room she meandered, her hands clasped behind her back in a show of innocence. Her cousin Avi, who was giving a speech on the seasonal attractions in Faerun, glanced at her briefly before continuing. A few more eyes turned to her, but not nearly enough. The translator didn’t even notice her entrance.

Quietly she went, dragging her heels and swaying this way and that, eyes downcast. The flare of her skirt, her hand coming up to run along the wall, her hair falling over her face— it was all a red light, a beacon in the wooden casings of the room for eyes to fix upon.

Lucretia leaned against the wall, just a few steps away from the door. Her gaze traced her shoes as they swiveled around idly. 

She couldn’t see the eyes on her. She could  _ feel _ them. Hungry. Always so damn hungry.

“Excuse me,” a throat was cleared. The translator, talking to her sweetly, like she was some sort of lost lamb. “Is there something wrong, young pretty girl?”

Lucretia glanced up and quickly away. Everyone was looking at her. She heaved a sigh and gently cupped her face. She felt a little sick and let the nausea leak into her voice, a low drip that softened her letters and slowed them down. What an intense amount of misery to be held in such a young girl. “They found my friend…”

They held onto her every word with baited breath.

Lucretia hadn’t really been friends with the murdered girl. She’d seen her in passing here and there and she had friends that were friends with her. Lucretia hadn’t known her well enough to not be disgusted by what she was doing at the moment.  _ Using _ that poor dead girl like this.

“Lying facedown on a rocky beach…” Vile, foul work— but she kept her voice morose, mourning her own loss of innocence. “Completely naked.” Lucretia sighed again. “She’d been  _ murdered _ .”

The translator slowly looked at Avi.

Lucretia started her way out the door, feeling the attention slowly disconnect from her to each other as conversation arose in English and Portuguese. 

It wasn’t enough to completely dissuade the men, but Lucretia was rather talented at playing the long game and waiting.

The mortician didn’t blink at all as he relayed the autopsy report. This was a fact that Kravitz noticed and couldn’t look away from. Throughout the whole conversation he tried to match this particular habit, but found he couldn’t make it past eight seconds without blinking. Kravitz gave up trying to run this particular imaginary race after thirty seconds.

“She was found face down and wrapped in plastic that appeared to be bought at the General Store. Her body has been determined to have been floating in the river for two days, but no traces of salt water were found in her lungs. Cause of death was determined to be a stab wound to the chest but four more lacerations, made with the same blade— roughly 4 inches— were found on her shoulders and back. Wrist ligatures were found with slight bruising, the twine of unknown origin. Relatively clean body and clothes, meaning she was probably placed in the river shortly after her death. No sign of sexual assault, nor have we found any foreign DNA. She was found in a white dress that we’re still combing through for any unmatched hairs or particles— no shoes and no coat, despite the chilly weather recently.”

Taako glanced at Kravitz. “Well.”

Kravitz shook his head. “And you said this girl was only…?”

“Twenty three.”

_ Twenty three _ . She was only four years younger than him. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah,” Taako said. “Bummer.”

The mortician turned his dry gaze to Taako. He still hadn’t blinked. “Bummer,” he parroted slowly. 

Taako shrugged. “Bummer.”

The elevator opened then, revealing a rather gray looking hallway. A few concrete doors lay scattered along the walls— Kravitz rather thought this place looked more like a jail for zombies instead of a funeral home.

They entered a small room on the right. It looked a lot like every other examiner’s room Kravitz had been in; lacking color and unnecessarily unnerving. He supposed all the rooms had to be cold to preserve the body lying covered on the steel table, but it was still the icing on the cake.

A small table held some tools and a box of gloves, which all three of them adorned. The mortician moved forward and unveiled the body. 

It had been a while since Kravitz had felt unnerved at seeing a dead body, which was simultaneously a good and bad thing. From the mortician’s report and from what he could see, Kravitz had viewed a lot of bodies with far more grotesque injuries and causes of death. He’d uncovered bodies  _ himself  _ half decomposed and infested with maggots and littered with puncture wounds to the point of disfigurement. Death was death, of course, but there was something far less unnerving about seeing a mostly intact body than one horribly dismantled.

This girl on the table before him looked as if she were sleeping. Her skin was paled, save the discoloration around her puncture wounds, but she was intact. There was some sort of beauty to her that hadn’t faded in death that was the truly unnerving thing.

Her eyelashes rested gently on her cheeks. Her fingers were long and lithe. Her hair, while matted and still slightly dirty, framed her like a golden halo.

Her hair— which was shockingly blonde and in the second longest braid Kravitz had seen in this town.

Her hair— which looked exactly like Taako’s.

And, Kravitz thought, as he paused in the middle of putting his gloves on, didn’t she have the same nose as him?

Kravitz felt his bones chill, his heart pounding, his eyes shifting ever so slightly from one face to another. 

“Remind me, again,” he said to no one in particular, “Of her name?”

The mortician was also staring at Taako. “Everyone called her Lup.”

He wasn’t sure why that mattered to him— as if it would help him draw any conclusions. It’s not like Taako’s face changed from the almost bored expression he wore at all.

Taako and the mortician sat to the side as Kravitz worked, first performing a general one-over then moving to look for specifics. He had to force the eerie similarities from his mind; Lup was slowly becoming less subjective in his mind, which wasn’t a good thing. She was a  _ case _ — a homicide victim— and it was dangerous for her to become something more. Which, even after so many years, felt heartless to think, but if Kravitz felt the appropriate sorrow for every single victim he faced he would be unable to do his job.

So he sent a small thought to Lup; a small “I’m sorry”, though he was sure that she neither cared nor received the message. Though it made him feel a bit better about what he had to do.

Blonde, roughly 5’8, puncture wounds and ligature marks. 

He could remember Taako saying something about how Lup worked at the  _ Triple M  _ diner. This was the only solid fact he knew about the victim’s life and it revealed very little. Anyone and everyone from all walks of life had the ability to wait tables. It was a lead that he’d follow later, though he couldn't imagine it would reveal much. 

At the moment, he had to focus on her body. There was a case in this town, roughly a year ago, that had been officially marked a double suicide. In Kravitz’s obligatory research of Faerun, he had stumbled across the reports. It was two girls— lovers, the notes said— who were written off by the previous agent as “Romeo and Juliet wannabes”. 

‘The town mourned,” the notes said, “but no one asked questions”.

Which was a considerably hard thing to do when both of the lover’s bodies had also contained multiple stab wounds and bruising around both their wrists.

There was one other thing that was odd about the bodies. It was a fact that only the mortician and the previous agent knew. If Lup had the same “mark”, then Kravitz could be sure that the two cases were connected.

Which would mean that the town of Faerun had a serial killer on its hands.

He continued inspecting the body further, almost procrastinating to check for this specific thing. It wasn’t enough that all the bodies had been found floating in the same river, wrapped in plastic, with wrist marks and puncture wounds— they all had to have—

Gently he picked up Lup’s hand, swallowing his discomfort at how cold it was. 

There, carved delicately into her thumb pad, was a small letter  _ B _ .

_ E _ on one of the lover’s ring finger.  _ G _ on the other’s pinkie.

“Shit,” Kravitz whispered. Taako sat up. The mortician blinked.

“What is it?”

Kravitz gently laid Lup’s hand back down and took off his gloves. “Were either of you here for the two girls that died last year?”

The mortician nodded. 

“Yeah?” Taako said. He’d been staring at Lup’s body the entire time but finally he looked to Kravitz. “You think they’re all connected?”

Kravitz sighed and stood. “I think this is something bigger than a murder.”

_ E, G,  _ and  _ B _ . 

Something intuitive told Kravitz that the killer was spelling something and wasn’t finished. It would be almost pointless to investigate the letters now, unless they happened to be initials of some sort.

Regardless, his stomach churned when he realized that so far, the letters spelled  _ BEG _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, ages are gonna be tricky for this fic LMAO  
> My main goal here is to combine the characteristics of some Twin Peaks people with those of TAZs’; i want to try to keep as many people as I can in character, though some will deviate from canon in order to keep that good Twin Peaks vibe.  
> That being said, young Lucretia was absolutely 10,000% as mischievous and intelligent and sly as Audrey.


End file.
